try me [charlie]

17 march // galway

Seven o’clock; Honey flipped the sign to ‘closed’ and locked the door, looking around the shop only briefly--and not really comprehending what she might have needed to do--before heading upstairs. Her portkey was at half seven, so there was just enough to change clothes (a green crushed velvet skirt and nicer boots), fix her hair (out of the bun, adding some volume), and put on more makeup (red lipstick). She was probably putting too much thought into it; it was just a night out. In Ireland. With Charlie. Followed by a day and another night.

Not London, not Hogsmeade had worked well enough for them last week, having lunch in Edinburgh-- until they ran into the drunk-without-a-room-to-shag-in problem. Then St Patrick’s Day was on a Wednesday and that was a good excuse to drink; she didn’t work Thursday and they were friends so they could spend the day together. She didn’t have an excuse for the second night, but she and Harlan would leave the UK for literally all the same reasons--muggle place to get away from things--and that had turned out just… fine.

Honey blinked at her reflection, ready to get her hands on a drink to quiet her brain down. Going out was fun, Charlie was fun, and that was that. She slung her bag over her shoulder and after a quick floo, portkey, and apparation, she was in Galway. Charlie’s portkey was earlier—not too much earlier—so she pushed into the pub, stopping just inside the door to look around for him. It wasn’t too crowded yet but it was getting there; the sign behind the bar said the live music started at eight and she wasn’t sure if she was excited about that or not.

She spotted him after another few seconds, a small smile turning up the corners of her mouth. She didn’t think she had been worried about him being here without her, but she might have felt a little relief to find him drinking alone. She made a point to smirk when she caught his attention, offering him a, “Hi,” as she looked him over. He had a drink and she wanted one, too, but she was still holding her bag. “I’m gonna—“ she lifted her bag a couple inches— “In the room.” She just barely kept herself from calling it their room.

@Charlie Baker

Charlie had another sip of his ale—a Kilkenny, because he hadn’t wanted the grief of ordering a Guinness on St Patrick’s Day, as an Englishman in Ireland without any backup—and scanned the pub again, hoping Honey wouldn’t be far off. He’d mistook no less than three other redheads for her in the half an hour he’d been waiting; he had arrived in Galway just under an hour ago, found the pub, checked into the room above the pub (nothing if not efficient), and come back downstairs to wait — in hindsight, waiting in the room might’ve been easier than sitting here by himself like a twat.

He was regretting the green t-shirt too, but he wasn’t the only one bedecked in emerald (he was certainly wearing the least, compared to most of the other pub’s patrons). He’d left his jacket upstairs, but he had had a haircut (finally) and made sure to slick it back.

The door to the pub opened and Charlie glanced over automatically, not expecting to see Honey and doing a double-take when he realised it was actually her moving through the small crowd towards him. “Hey,” he said, smirking back and letting his eyes obviously roam over her from head-to-toe.

Charlie brought his attention back up sharply. “Right, yeah.” He nodded. “I’ll get you a drink,” he offered, but failed to move. Honey didn’t immediately move either, and then he realised that she needed the room key. The musician got to his feet and reached into his back pocket, handing the key—an old fashioned one, with a tag on it, so she couldn’t fuck it up like in Geneva with the key card (he smirked to himself)—over. ”Room nine, it’s on the right.”

Or was he supposed to go with her? No, what was the point in coming all this way. “I’ll—” He stopped and just pointed at the bar instead, pausing to put a beermat on top of his half-finished pint in the (potentially vain) hope that nobody would clear it off the table.

He got in the queue, lost his place at least once, and realised when he got to the front that he couldn’t very well order Honey a Scotch on St Patrick’s Day. “Erm, a Kilkenny and a Bulmers. And two Jameson’s, doubles.” The girl behind the bar looked at him, unimpressed, and told him she Wasn’t about to give you singles, which he supposed he deserved — being English and all.

Charlie made it back to the table—all four glasses unscathed—at the same time Honey returned from dropping her bag off. His drink from before was still there, too (along with a couple of extra people who'd taken the opportunity to lay claim to some space), so after setting their fresh drinks down with Honey's help he flicked the beermat off and downed the rest of it, wiping his top lip free of foam (mostly) when he was done. “Portkey alright?” he asked, then wished he hadn’t.

Charlie offered to get her a drink and she nodded; otherwise she didn’t move, save for raising her eyebrows after another second. She would need a key for the room, she assumed--going somewhere rather muggle was all part of it--and he seemed to catch on after a second. She returned his smirk (because she had been right) and took the key from him, making sure her fingers grazed his palm.

Room nine. “Right.” There was another beat of hesitation--she thought he might head upstairs with her, they could just skip ahead--he pointed at the bar and she remembered wanting a drink. She nodded and headed off through the door marked ‘Inn’, glancing down at the key for the room number she had already forgotten. It took her a few seconds longer to unlock the door than she would admit (and she was completely sober) but she made quick work of getting things in order to get back downstairs. She pulled a smaller handbag out of her larger overnight bag and stuffed her wand, lipstick, and a handful of Euros in it.

Honey returned in time to see Charlie managing four drinks--good choice, Charlie--and she helped see them to the table without any mishaps. The barstools Charlie had a few minutes ago had been taken--as well as half their table space--so she stood next to him, her arm brushing up against his. He picked up his old pint and set on finishing that so she picked up a whisky, bringing the glass to her nose so she could have a little sniff; she set it back down without tasting it. She traded it for the pint with less foam, taking a small sip before determining it was cider and having a bigger swallow.

She flicked her gaze back to Charlie as he asked about her portkey, her glass just a few centimeters from her lips. “Aye,” she said, and had another drink. “Completely normal.” She set her glass down and angled herself a bit more toward him--she was very conscious of the muggle in her personal space mostly behind her now--though it wasn’t crowded enough (yet) to warrant her getting any closer. “How was yours?” She added it almost as an afterthought, because she had never been good at small talk.

The stools he’d been guarding with his life since arriving had been (predictably) sleuthed while he was at the bar, so they would have to stand until they became available again — which he supposed he didn’t mind, that much, if it meant it was easier to get a little cosier without being too obvious about it.

Charlie watched Honey sniff her whiskey and set it back down with a smirk. He pulled his pint closer and watched her drink, and again — and again. He supposed he’d had a bit of a head start, but they had a long way to go yet. “Right, yeah.” Normal, of course. Charlie mirrored her when she twisted towards him, missing that Honey was probably doing that to block out the people around them more than anything else. He drank, then licked his top lip free of the foam. “Yeah, alright.” He held her gaze for a moment, then glanced away.

This was such a foreign situation for them that he felt almost like they’d been shunted back to square one, before they’d become friends or— before they’d even slept together. That first conversation had been easier than this. Charlie had another sip of his ale, then looked at her again. “That alright?” he asked, pointing at her cider with the hand still wrapped around his own pint. “Can get you something else if you want but—” he let go and nudged the shorter glass towards her, “—you’re gonna have to drink that at some point,” he smirked. “When in Rome.”

Charlie’s portkey was alright, and now that was established-- now what?

Honey had another drink, glancing elsewhere before looking at Charlie again. Her eyebrows went up as she lowered her glass, her gaze dropping from his face to her drink and back up again. “No, it’s--” fine, she was going to say, but he was already offering to get her something else. She narrowed her eyes as she glanced down (again), rolling her eyes as he pushed the whiskey toward her.

(She had been to Rome and she thought about that limoncello almost regularly-- this wasn’t like that.)

But their conversation was stilted and she didn’t know how many drinks ahead Charlie was, so she set her pint down and traded it for the tumbler. It was almost to her lips when there was a tap on her shoulder--along with a “Can you...?”--Honey lifted her other hand to indicate the woman would need to wait a minute before interrupting her. “When in Rome,” she said, rolling her eyes one more time before knocking the whole glass back, both getting it--the whiskey--over with and trying to jump start her inebriation.

She made a face, eyes closed and nose scrunched up, and set the glass down. She opened her eyes one by one, relaxing into a smirk as she picked her pint back up to have another sip of her cider, clear the taste out of her mouth. She forgot about the woman behind her until there was another tap on her shoulder; Honey shifted, turning just enough to look at her. “Can you and your boyfriend move down?” Honey’s eyes went wide before she managed to relax enough to correct her: “Ex-boyfriend.” It was quick and not well thought out, but there were more people joining the table and Honey wanted to establish that Charlie wasn’t her boyfriend, not because she wanted to advertise she was single for anyone else’s benefit, but--

Honey turned back to Charlie, realizing she was basically implying--by literally saying it--that he had been her boyfriend previously and she was too sober to have this discussion now. “Can you move down?” she asked, rolling her eyes, ignoring his smirk and trying to move past it.

Charlie almost thought she was going to bottle it and leave him with two whiskeys to finish (he’d manage, somehow), but she succumbed to his peer pressure and picked the glass up— His eyes darted from Honey to the blonde woman tapping her shoulder— almost gave her a once-over — but then Honey was drinking the whiskey (good lass). Charlie grinned.

He parted his lips to say something when their friend from a moment ago interrupted again— Charlie watched Honey’s face with interest (too much, probably) at boyfriend, then blinked as she corrected (ex), then smirked once his mind had had a second to process that.

But could he move down? He opened his mouth to ask Dunno, can I? in that annoying English teacher way he’d learnt from his mother, but he could see Honey was already ruffled so it probably wasn’t worth it. Instead, he silently acquiesced and shuffled further along the table, taking his drinks with him — but not too far, because he wanted to make sure that she kept close.

“Ex, now, is it?” he asked as he lifted his pint to his lips, somewhere between smirking and grinning but definitely smug about it. He only had a quick sip, speaking again before she could cut him deep; “You know we might as well have been,” he said casually — and not forcedly, he wasn’t bitter about it (anymore). “Be easier to explain to other people,” he continued; people not like them, was what he meant, if she could infer that from his tone and his look. People who only had exes or friends, not in-betweens.

There was a pause between her asking Charlie to move down and him actually doing it-- she thought she knew what he was focused on but she wasn’t about to prompt him into questioning her about calling him an ex-whatever. But he did move down, and Honey shifted along with him, sliding her pint along the table’s surface and leaving her whiskey glass for the other group to deal with. They were still close; Honey nearly knocked him with her elbow as she had another swallow.

Honey wrinkled her nose--ex, now, is it?--and rolled her eyes once she relaxed a little. He didn’t give her a chance to say anything--like how she was just making it clear they weren’t together together (even though they were in Galway together and it wasn’t like they could bring anyone else back to their room, unless--Charlie was distracted, continuing on.

She raised both eyebrows; he was rather casual about it, saying they might as well have dated, nowhere close to the mood he’d created when they had last discussed it, in bed, right after she proposed he cheat on his girlfriend. She wasn’t about to mention that, not about to ruin the mood already. “Who’re you explaining it to?” She was grinning, then, though she was genuinely interested in who he was trying to explain the Them of Five Years Ago. She had attempted to explain it, though the only people she really cared to talk to about anything--Grace and Fergie--didn’t want to hear about her fucking Charlie in the first place.

She had another drink, shrugging one shoulder as she lowered her glass. “I guess I prefer my boyfriends to not fuck other women.” As in, she didn’t think they were at all exclusive back then, because she certainly hadn’t been. And she wasn’t now, either, so it still applied.

Honey didn't hone in on what he was suggesting--that they practically were exes--so much as that he was hypothetically (not hypothetically) explaining their time together to other people. "Nobody—" he said quickly — too quickly. "Well, you know," he corrected himself, without being forthcoming about who; Fflur, Sam, Liam, Fergie (he should really have been higher up the list), Kate— others, surely, but it wouldn't do to highlight how many people he had talked about Honey to. He wasn’t obsessed, he'd just had to spend statistically more time explaining their situation than anyone else he'd considered an ex, where it had been less complicated.

Charlie drank, mostly as an excuse to not have to keep talking about talking about them— His eyes flicked to Honey and he paused, glass still tipped back mid-drink. He lowered his pint (almost half gone already) back to the table and laughed. "Well," he said. He didn't want to start a mud-slinging contest, but he was confident she had been sleeping with other men (and women) — and, well, he'd (stupidly, in hindsight) decided he wanted a girlfriend — someone to come home to, someone to confide in— someone who wasn't fucking anyone else. Then he'd met Kate, who only had eyes for him, and he had thought that would work.

They hadn't ever talked about this, not directly—except that one time, in his old flat— and then he realised Honey wasn't even talking about him. She was talking about Harlan.

He’d never been relieved about Honey thinking about Harlan Bellamy before, but there was a first time for everything, he supposed. “Right, yeah,” he agreed, almost sympathetically; he preferred his girlfriends to do the same, which, ultimately, meant that excluded Honey from being one.

“Well,” he brought his beer up again, “not planning on being anyone’s boyfriend for the foreseeable,” he said offhandedly, smirking at her.

It was nobody. Or she knew. She shrugged, assuming she did know, assuming it wasn’t his mum he had been trying to explain anything to (because Honey wouldn’t mention anything less than serious to her mum and she and Charlie were more alike than she cared to admit).

“Well,” she repeated, stifling a laugh. She figured he was thinking the same thing, that Charlie wasn’t going to be her boyfriend because he was sleeping with other people and that well (from him) had the tone that said he knew the same to be true about her. Never mind that neither of them wanted that, or the semblance of that. No emotions, something like that. She took another long drink, trying to catch up, already forgetting she had just downed a glass of whiskey. “Yeah.” That was that settled; they weren’t dating now (just like they hadn’t been dating then) because they has established (in not as many words) that they were sleeping with other people.

But that was definitely him saying he was sleeping with other people, if they had only been hinting at it before. And they would continue doing that, other people. They had both tried relationships—Charlie got married, even—and that sort of commitment wasn’t for them. Clearly. They wouldn’t be in Galway together if it was. And that meant this arrangement was sustainable. “Lucky me.” And lucky Charlie. “Neither.” Boyfriend, girlfriend, same difference.

“This—” the current arrangement— “Wouldn’t work as well if we had dated.” Honey was looking at him as she talked, for once not overthinking how close they were, even though they were public (and wasn’t that why they went so far from home? “Being friendly with an ex is—“ she grimaced. She wasn’t thinking about him being friends with any of his exes (the ex-wife included), more focused on how she apparently couldn’t be friends with Harlan, could only manage to be friends with Will after it was clearly established he couldn’t maintain a casual thing with her. She rolled her eyes and had another drink.

Charlie met Honey’s eye and smiled, lowering his pint back to the table; “Lucky you,” he agreed. That was that then, no boyfriends or girlfriends — just this. And other people, but no labels involved. “No need to make it complicated, then,” he smirked; as she’d indirectly requested so a few weeks earlier.

He brought his glass up towards his mouth again and stopped just shy— This. By this she meant them, which meant that there was a them, of sorts. But it wouldn’t work as well if they had dated. He sipped his beer and thought about that. She was probably right — it was clear he wouldn’t have been able to do something like this with Kate, for example; he could only convince himself it was still alright to shag her when he was drunk or high (or both). Then he immediately felt awful when it became apparent she was holding out for something more — and that was the difference, wasn’t it? Honey didn’t want more from him.

Charlie looked to her again and hesitated to react to her grimace—was it pointed, or?—then he realised that not everything was about him, all the time. He smiled lopsidedly and nodded. “Yeah, hellish.” He let out a light laugh and finished the remainder of his pint. He licked his lips.

“Don’t think I’m friendly with any of my exes,” he said, reluctant to let either of them focus on the elephant in the room. Someone passing with a round of drinks nudged him in the back and he shifted closer to Honey instinctively. “Not that I’ve got that many,” he continued. “Proper ones,” he clarified, before she said something about his notorious body count. He tried to count them—the proper ones—now, without obviously using his fingers—tightened them in succession around the tumbler of whiskey he hadn’t yet touched—and didn’t run out: his first girlfriend in school; Steph, the muggle; Hilary, who’d been the only real ‘high profile’ girlfriend; Meghan. And then Honey, who hadn’t been his girlfriend, as they’d just established.

Fflur popped into his head then, which was unwarranted because she definitely wasn’t a girlfriend. A girl and a friend, sure—and he hadn’t had many of those, either—and he had slept with her but that was different. But they were still friends, and they hadn’t dated so maybe Honey was right.

And then Kate, but he was trying not to keep bringing her up — directly or indirectly.

It occurred to him belatedly that Honey had grimaced for a reason. “Who’s causing you headache?” he asked, praying she wasn’t having tea with Harlan fucking Bellamy.

He wasn’t going to make it complicated; why was that the part of the conversation he was remembering. Whatever the reason, she was grateful for it— but still, she rolled her eyes (and smirked just a bit).

Charlie wasn’t ‘friendly’ with any of his exes—she held her tongue about the obvious thing she could point out, so you’re welcome, Charlie—and she wanted to point out that she wasn’t either (because that was easier than trying to explain anything—or make excuses for anything) but Charlie shifted closer and her mind went blank. She had missed someone passing behind him, Charlie needing to get closer, assumed it was all part of the emphasis on them having never dated each other since they were actually, kind of, friends. “Neither,” she said after a second, talking about her lack of proper relationships. Shelooked up to meet his eye, doing the mental tally; six was a lot, for her, but she didn’t mention that, either.

They were quiet for a minute—drinking, Honey getting close to halfway through with her pint—before Charlie posed his question. Who was giving her a headache? No one, technically. She saw Will semi-regularly but that was pretty much it, and that was more enjoyable than anything else; the last time she had mentioned Will to Charlie, however, he had been declared a psychopath, so she felt rather justified not mentioning him now. “No one,” she said with a shrug, having another sip of her drink. “I think that’s my point.” Wasn’t it?

She let another few seconds go by, glancing at Charlie’s drink, his hand, before she brought her gaze back up. “So how many?” She raised her eyebrows, waiting a beat before clarifying: “Proper ones.” They had never really talked about it before, and besides the obvious answer—hopefully he could read the room and not elaborate on that one—it might be entertaining now.

No one, she said, and Charlie watched her have another sip of her cider, focusing on her mouth. That was her point, apparently. He pushed his bottom lip out as he considered that. “Yeah,” he said after a moment, gazing off into the middle distance; she was right — how much more of a headache was it trying to be friendly?

He had a sip of whiskey, finally. “Hm?” He lowered his glass and looked at Honey. Proper ones. “Erm,” he said, glancing up at the low ceiling, as if he hadn’t just counted them in his head a moment ago (he was feeling the need to double-count now, just in case). He let the air escape between his lips on a deep exhale. “Depends, really, don't it? There's girls who've said they dated me but," he wrinkled one side of his nose up to show what he thought of that (he was marginally sympathetic — it was generally his fault for misleading them) and ran his free hand back through his hair.

He’d had enough alcohol at this point—or rather, it was finally catching up to him—to be a bit of a prick about it. "Five, if you’re asking me, anyway,” he answered her — meaning not asking the girls who were under the (wrong) impression that that’d had something more meaningful with him than an arrangement.

He had another sip of his Jameson’s, then decided he was allowed to be curious — he could keep his emotions in check. "You?"

Honey arched an eyebrow as Charlie said it depends-- she assumed he meant it depended on the definition of proper, and she opened her mouth to interject or explain, but he went on to make it into an ego thing. Honey rolled her eyes; yes, he was very popular, wasn’t he? (If she were in a more serious mood, she might have remembered that conversation several months ago related to his restraining order, but that was the last thing on her mind.) “Right,” she said, and had another drink.

Five wasn’t bad--and she was asking him, yes--and it was pretty close to her count, too. She would have offered the information freely (maybe) but Charlie asked after another second (and another drink). “Six,” she said automatically, not having to stop and count. It had been ingrained in her because sixth time’s the charm had been a constant thought, once. “Not that it’s a competition or anything--” because she’d lose that, most likely; he’d married one of his.

She had another drink, lowering her glass as she had another thought. “Only two, like, serious.” And that meant they had been properly introduced to Grace and Fergie. One, if it meant meeting the parents. Honey glanced away from Charlie then, tapping her fingers on the side of her glass.

There was a gentle shove behind her—more people joining the party at the end of their table—and Honey took half a step forward, farther into Charlie’s space. She reached for his waist with her closest hand, both for balance and, she realized again, because she could. “Then it’s just the one—“ she said, distracting herself from dwelling on the things they could and couldn’t do in public— “Not cheating.” She couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the proximity making her more talkative, sharing small details. “Barely,” she added after another second, smirking as she gave his side a light squeeze. Barely just the one, she meant, no thanks to Charlie.

Six. Charlie fought to keep his expression neutral — or as close to neutral as he could manage (which wasn’t much; his eyes had widened perceptibly and his jaw had tensed). Six, and he didn’t count. Not that it’s a competition, Honey said, and Charlie glanced at her — he must have been pretty poor at controlling his face, if she’d thought that was why he was discontented. “No,” he forced a smile and looked down at his whiskey, “it’s not,” he agreed and had another sip.

Only two that were serious. Charlie nodded absently and wet his lips, not meeting her eye. The fact that he didn’t count still playing on a loop in his mind — interspersed with wondering why it bothered him in the first place (ego, mostly).

She moved closer and Charlie flicked his dark eyes up to meet Honey’s as her hand made landfall against his waist, an odd feeling of reassurance emanating out from that point of contact. Just the one— not cheating. His brow furrowed for a split-second, but— Barely, she said with a smirk and a squeeze. Charlie’s mouth relaxed into a lopsided grin; “Hope that wasn’t my fault,” he said, his emotions clearly at odds with his words. She’d always been a little too good at distracting him, hadn’t she?

Charlie twisted a little more towards Honey so that they were almost face-to-face, save for the height difference. “If we’re only counting not cheating…” he trailed off and grimaced comically. “Guess that puts me at zero,” he admitted quietly, biting his lip gently and gazing at hers. It wasn’t like they were all dramatic affairs — usually once he’d cheated and been caught his relationship ended, but he’d still cheated, so he was at least being honest about that.

He rested his elbow on the bar leaner they were slowly losing to the growing party behind Honey, his almost-empty glass held loosely in his fingers. His other hand found Honey’s waist, mirroring her; his thumb slipped up under her top, just barely, to brush against her skin. It had been a while since they’d been able to be this close—this normal—outside the confines of their respective places of residence. It was almost like he had to remember what he was and wasn’t allowed to do — but that had been the point of coming here, to the west coast of Ireland, away from everyone and everything, hadn’t it? To worry less about rules.

But curiosity was getting the better of him, too. “So other than Bellamy—” he was making the effort to use his real name, much as it pained him, “—and the twerp who kicked a tree—” he raised his eyebrows, grinning softly, “—who else?”

Technically, it would have been her fault, but that was beside the point; they both knew she was talking about him, that he was her barely. She pressed her fingers into his side with just a bit more pressure, shrugging her other shoulder, as if to say his guess was as good as hers.

They were close, and it was more difficult to focus, but she was enjoying being out, she reminded herself— the top reason she kept herself behaving, rather than suggest they go upstairs. But back on the topic of them (and not them), if they were only counting not cheating, his number dropped to zero. She raised both eyebrows, feigning surprise. (And he had been offended when she didn’t want to date him; the nerve.) Honey laughed quietly as she smiled. “Not that it’s a competition,” she said again— but if it was, she had won. (Barely.)

He put her hand on her waist—took long enough, too—and she was glad that bit of her blouse had come untucked, certainly wasn’t that distracted by a little skin-on-skin contact.

But other than Bellamy— oh, they were doing this, then. (At least this list was easier to recall than the other one.) He remembered Will, at least—she would feel bad later for smiling at the twerp moniker—so that only left her four others to explain. “Viktor, between them.” That didn’t last more than four months, and she had seen Harlan fairly regularly throughout. She kept her eyes on Charlie’s as she went on, neglecting to mention the ten year gap between Will and the boyfriend before that. 

“Hector.” She had been eighteen, travelling the continent; he had been Head Boy when she was in her fourth year and they found each other in Amsterdam, she thought. She couldn’t blame Harlan for that breakup, but it was definitely when she realized monogamy wasn’t really for her. “Roger, in school.” Her sixth year, his seventh. “And Nora.” Her one and only girlfriend. “Not gay, it turns out,” she added, rolling her eyes lightly, making a mental tally to make sure she had gotten them all.